


Scars

by AndreaLyn



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The deepest scars are on the inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

_a sudden movement and a broken limb  
the patches are there to show where i'm hit_  
-snow patrol, whatever's left  
*

1986

“Get him on the gurney, get him…”

The hospital was chaos and madness all rolled into one. Nurses panicked because they weren’t sure if they should interfere and Doctors were falling under much the same curse. Dr. Rowan Chase was the lead on this case, a renowned doctor in the country, becoming a renowned doctor worldwide and this was _his_ patient, as he so quickly barked to all the nurses. There was the understood threat that if anyone let the patient die, they would be fired on the spot.

A tall, blonde woman came in with the gurney, half-sobbing and half-terrified. Her face was pale and there was the slightest smell of alcohol to her skin as she passed in a desperate hurry, asking where the gurney and the child had gone. “The mother,” Nurse Richards commented under her breath to Nurse Darcy.

Dr. Rowan Chase pivoted on his heel to tend to the patient, a young boy who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, sweating and writhing on the gurney, not shouting so much as whimpering. The nurses watched with sympathy as Dr. Chase did everything he could to subdue his pain and break the fever, starting a saline drip immediately.

Nurse Darcy shook her head, leaning in. “That’s Dr. Chase’s wife,” she confided quietly.

“Then…”

“He needs more fluid!” Dr. Chase barked to some of the nurses, sending Richards and Darcy scattering to find something, more bags of the saline and water to be force-fed to the boy. Nurse Richards held the bag as they hurried down the hall of Sacred Heart Melbourne. The boy was blonde and thin, a pretty face whose appeal was dulled by the sickness. He bore great resemblance to the woman who had just arrived and somewhat lesser resemblance to Doctor Chase, though still noticeable.

“Nothing happens to my son,” Dr. Chase snapped as they transferred him to a bed. “Nothing.”

The nurses and assisting doctors nodded. The last thing Dr. Chase needed was to have his son littered with tangible proof that he had failed. The very last thing Dr. Chase needed was to lose his son if they all failed.

*

2005

“Christ!” Chase yelped, cradling his arm.

Foreman glanced up at him dubiously, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t you _not_ supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain, good Catholic boy you are?” he chuckled a little, clearly amused. Chase just glowered at Foreman, holding his arm closer to his stomach as he inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Seriously, you have to give me your arm if I’m gonna splint this.” Chase sighed and released his death grip, allowing Foreman to delicately take the arm into his fingers. “How’d you do this? You’ve got bruises all over your face too and…”

“The patient,” Chase muttered, gritting his teeth. “House suspected there were toxins involved and since you were with the patient and Cameron was in the lab, he sent me to check out the house. The patient, apparently,” Chase snarled, irritated beyond belief with the world and all its pawns, “lives in a three-story house that has to be about three hundred years old. I was in the attic when the floor caved.”

“Well, you definitely broke your arm,” Foreman broke the bad news. “I’m going to set the arm, put the cast on, and then you get to tell House that you’re taking some sick leave.” He studied the arm again, gently feeling the fractured bones, evoking a startled and pained cry from Chase. “I’d say four weeks, at least.”

Chase glanced up through the locks of hair that had fallen in his eyes. “Knowing House, he’ll have me working.”

Foreman didn’t look very sympathetic as he shrugged. “Yeah, knowing him.”

Chase sighed. “All right, let’s…” he sighed, not even wanting to say it. With a cast – even though it wasn’t his dominant hand – he would be helpless. Broken limbs weren’t so bad as a kid, but when you were an intensivist, it was career death. Or, at the worst, a career paralyzed.

The setting of the bones went quickly, it still was much better than it could have been. A clean break meant quicker healing. Chase winced as the pain coursed through his entire body, from head to toe, but Foreman was quick and professional and Chase could see why some of the patients preferred his bedside manner. Both men remained silent as Foreman patched him up, giving him the cast while Chase drifted off into thoughts of all the things he’d be unable to do. Showers with trash bags on his arm, he’d have trouble dressing and undressing. He’d definitely have to be careful sleeping. Four weeks of misery was what he seemed to be in for.

Chase glanced down at the white plaster and then looked up at Foreman, seeing the almost childish grin that lit up his face. With a roll of his eyes, Chase offered the cast. “Fine,” he exhaled tiredly. “You can sign it first.”

Foreman’s grin just widened. “Cameron’s gonna hate that I beat her to it,” he said, wielding the black Sharpie like a scalpel as he went at it and Chase resigned himself to the inevitable.

Helpless. Yet again.

*

1986

“How are you feeling, Robert?” came the question from somewhere nearby, voice quite patient. Rob blinked awake, the room fuzzy and bright and his body feeling heavy, weighted by something. His arm was itchy and there was an IV stuck into his elbow. He let out a startled cry and scratched at it. “Robert,” came the chastising and calm reply. “Don’t do that. It’s giving you fluid.”

Rob opened his eyes, turning to the side of the bed to find his father standing above him, still dressed in his labcoat, stethoscope hanging around his neck. Some of his hairs – half grey, half dirty blonde – were out of place, the only way that Rob could tell that his father had been out of his comfort zone. “Dad?” he mumbled. “Dad, my throat…”

“We had to intubate you,” his father explained slowly. “You were extubated quite quickly, but it might cause a sore, dry throat.” Even his explanations were cold, technical, doctorly. Rob frowned as he accepted a glass of water that the nurse held out to him. The last thing he’d remembered was coming home from school, hearing his parents arguing once more before his father left for his shift. Then, a terrible swell of heat had come over him and it was like time stopped until he woke up minutes ago.

“Dad?” Rob questioned again, voice small. He didn’t want Dr. Rowan Chase tending to him right now, he wanted his _father_.

Dr. Chase placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder, squeezing briefly. It wasn’t affectionate, not in the least. “Don’t you worry, Robert, we’ll get you better.” That was all he said before he was off, consulting a chart and not even looking back at Rob as he left.

Rob sighed lightly as he turned back to survey his surroundings. He was in a hospital gown, IV tube stuck into his arm, but he didn’t seem to have anything else besides a dry throat, slightly blurry vision, and a sense of loss. He glanced at the nurses doing their jobs, about to strike up conversation when he turned to the doorway, finding his mother standing there, beaming at him and carrying balloons in one hand, a book in the other.

“Look what I brought, Robbie!” she announced happily, making her way to his bedside, pressing a loving kiss to his forehead. “Your favourite.” She stroked his hair from off his forehead. “You just rest, I’ll read to you.” She continued to idly stroke his hair as she began reading the first passages of _Charlotte’s Web_ to him. “Where’s Papa going with that ax?” his mother began, doing the voices like she always did. “Said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast. “Out to…””

Rob drifted off to a peaceful sleep with the sound of his mother’s voice in his ears.

*

2005

“You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

House paused in the hall. There were about ten people that could have come from, but the only one close enough to have shouted that at him was Wilson, briskly walking towards him, files in hand. House stopped, leaning on his cane, wondering what he was in for this time. He sipped at his coffee as Wilson stared at him, apparently hoping that House already knew what he was going to yell at him for. When Wilson continued to say nothing, House continued to sip at his coffee.

“That’s good java,” he smirked. “Okay, out with it. I’m in trouble because…Cuddy’s feeling naughty? You’re feeling lonely? Is today the day the stick comes out of Chase’s ass?” House asked sympathetically, riling Wilson enough to receive the files pushed against his chest. “Uh.” House glanced down towards his torso. “I’ve only got two hands here, Hubel…or are you more of a Wiesel,” House pondered aloud. “Whichever, visually assess and tell me what’s with the folder,” he warned as he continued limping towards the diagnostics office.

Wilson kept the papers, but he also kept following. House pushed open his office door, observing Cameron and Foreman in the middle of a discussion in the conference room, but not the other one. House arched an eyebrow. “Where’s Junior?”

Wilson handed over the papers once more and House sighed, assuming they were important or relevant and he really only needed one of the two to apply. House sighed as he flipped through the chart. “Broken arm, I’m bored.” Wilson sighed, frustrated with the amateur Abbott and Costello routine and pointed forcefully at the patient name. “Hey!” House announced loudly with a conspiratorial smile. “I know him!”

“He broke his arm, if you even care,” Wilson scoffed.

House frowned. “What makes you think I don’t care?”

Wilson challenged him, snatching the file away. “Okay, which arm did he break?”

House paused. “Right?” He had that fifty-fifty thing going for him and it was obvious that he’d guessed wrong when Wilson’s smile turned smug and triumphant. “Don’t look like that, it makes me want to cane you,” House muttered with a sneer, limping over to his desk and sitting down. “So? Chase broke his arm. The end. What do you want me to do, run a special in the paper? Call Cuddy and gossip? Go break down with Chase over some beers and lament his inferior bone structure?”

Wilson sat down across from him. “No,” he admitted. “But what you _should_ do is give him the time off he’s going to ask for and then make sure he’s fine. Even though you’re humanly incapable of caring.”

“That’s a challenge,” House declared.

Wilson paused, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head slightly. “Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. It is a challenge.” House felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, wondering what he’d just got himself into. “Fifty bucks and four hours of clinic duty says you don’t care about Chase.” He had that infuriating smile, like he knew it was win-win, which it was. If House accepted, he admitted he didn’t care what happened to Chase, which could all too easily be proved to be a lie by past incidents. If he accepted the bet, well…he’d actually have to show Chase he cared.

“Eight hours,” House challenged.

Wilson seemed to pause to give that a moment’s thought. “Deal.”

House was grinning and Wilson was grinning too and for a moment, it appeared that neither were sure who had actually won this round. The smiles disappeared when there came a knock at the door and Chase stood there with a cast – already littered with signatures – and looking too tired to still be there. House beckoned him in and sent Wilson off in one simple hand motion. He was that talented.

Chase sat down, glaring at House petulantly.

“It’s not like _I_ broke your arm.” House rolled his eyes. Kids these days.

Chase let out a wounded noise, almost surprised that House would even say such a thing. “You sent me there and told me to get samples from the attic! The floor caved in!” House just smirked and glanced down at the cast. Messages from everyone but him; that would have to change. _Get well soon!_ Cameron’s loopy handwriting. _Gonna be a lonely month._ Foreman’s. _House, give him time off._ Cuddy.

“Lose weight,” House retorted, finding a form. “Sign this, you can have four weeks off on sick leave.” House smirked a little, thinking how ironic it would have been if Chase had broken his right arm and had been unable to sign a thing. House loved irony. Instead, he got to watch Chase sign the paper and hand it back. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I…what?” Chase frowned as he stood. “But you just said I could have sick leave!”

“From the hospital, yes,” House agreed. “But I can still drop by your place and give you work to research. Last I checked, you didn’t need your left arm to check websites. Though, depends what _kind_ of…”

“House!” Chase protested. “Fine. I’ll see you tonight.”

Chase left the room as quickly as he could and House took the moment to recline in his chair. He’d show Wilson. He would care with the best of them. Except, he’d have to stop himself before he cared as much as Cameron did. He didn’t think he could do that without lasting effects.

*

1986

“It must be _so_ cool to have your Dad working on you!” Garrett enthused. He had hair like a sunset on fire and his eyes danced with mischief as he held out assignments for Rob, barely able to contain himself. “Didja hear what happened wit’ Missy and Anthony?” His eyes flicked to the other presence in the room, calm and possessed Brian, who had the proper textbooks in hand, with a bag of treats atop. “He tried to kiss her, he got slapped, hard!”

“He even tried to hold her hand,” Brian added confidentially, glancing at the balloons. “Which one’s from your Dad? The nice ones?”

Rob remained silent. His mother had brought him flowers and a card, but it had only been signed from her and from the look his father had given her, she hadn’t exactly let him in on the deal before she’d made the trip to the gift shop.

“S’wrong with you anyway?” Garrett frowned, peering down suspiciously. “You contagious?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Brian sneered. “We wouldn’t be ‘lowed in here if he were that sick. Doctors are _smart_ you know, and talented. Like Rob’s Dad!”

“Stop!” Rob protested sharply. Garrett and Brian shut up immediately, and three mothers peer into the room at the volume of his voice. He blinked rapidly, trying to compose himself. “Annie’s father’s a…a firefighter, and Ryan’s Dad writes novels,” he continued stubbornly. “Being a Doctor’s nothing,” he insisted, his chin jutting up angrily. “Anyone can be a doctor, anyone at all. My Dad’s nothing special!”

Garrett and Brian exchanged a doubtful glance.

“You feeling good, Rob?” Brian asked worriedly. “You’re all…pink.”

“He’s got a high fever.”

Rob glanced to the doorway to find his father standing there, his face passive. Whatever pink had been in Rob’s cheeks faded as his face took on a whiter pallor and he found himself frozen in guilt and a terrible sense of misery washing over him. Had his father heard his words? Would he hold it against him and not show him fatherly affection because he’d lashed out. Brian and Garrett scattered with a, ‘get well!’ ‘we’ll say hi!’ as his father took up his chart and glanced at it.

“The nurses tell me that you’re not eating, Robert,” his father reprimanded sternly.

Rob glared up at him. “I didn’t mean it,” he blurted out immediately, as though that might redeem him. “Promise, Dad, I…”

“I heard very well what you said,” his father cut him off, flipping his chart shut. “I’m going to increase your prednisone…” Rob stared at him, frowning. “It will help the swelling. Can you trust me?”

Rob just stared off to the wall. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “Where’s Mum?”

“She’s…”

The pause was like a life of its own, and Rob was used to those pauses. It meant that Mum was somewhere where his father wasn’t and since that was around him, that meant that she wasn’t around him.

“…out.”

“Oh,” Rob remarked softly, turning away from his father. “Thank you, Dr. Chase.”

*

2005

 _Shave and a haircut…_

Before he could get the two bits part in, the door was pulled open. House lifted the already greasily spotted bag of food. “I brought munchies,” he promised as he tossed them at Chase’s chest, leaving him to fumble and catch them with his good hand as House leaned heavily on his cane and wandered inside Chase’s apartment. Chase shut the door behind him.

He arched one eyebrow. “Come on in,” he muttered evenly. “Don’t even worry about your shoes.” He dumped the bag on the coffee table, kicking back on his couch and peering inside. “Tacos?” he mumbled, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Does anyone in the office even like tacos?”

“Down, boy,” House protested with a smirk, peering out Chase’s windows to see what kind of view he had. “There’s some nachos just the way you like them in the bottom. The burritos are mine. Hands off.”

Chase dug through the bag and House took the moment to glance at his arm. Smirking when he saw what Stacy had written; _For a good time, call_ …wait, that was **his** number. Chase was pulling triple-duty if he even attempted calling that. Or maybe House would just hire some sort of dominatrix to man his phone lines. They were just like temps anyway, right?

“Thanks,” Chase mumbled as he tore into the nachos, going for a beer at the same time as he popped a pill for the pain and House would glare in his general direction, except for the fact that nobody likes a hypocrite. Chase held the beer out to House, as though they could share it, but House passed it off. He’d had a few Vicodin while sitting in his car and wondering just how much he’d have to care to win this bet. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t willing, but if he was going the distance, Wilson had better pony up the cash.

House glanced over Chase, noting the general discontent that lurked around his face. “How’s the arm holding up?”

Chase shrugged. “As well as the cast holds it.”

“Never been injured before?”

Chase smiled ruefully as he stared at the plaster. “Never had a broken limb. I’ve had a hospital stay here or there.” House paused before replying. He’d seen Chase’s hospital charts, there had been whole sections involving missing records. He was still trying to get a hold of them, figure out why there was a record of Chase being checked into a hospital, but no record of his treatment, his ailment, or his doctor. Odd. “This is really good,” he praised. “I can barely taste that it’s been deep fried.”

“You know, not everything in this country has to be deep fried,” House remarked, picking off a few green onions from his burrito. He took offense. He was proud of his country. After all, it gave good baseball. “So, what was it? Drug overdose? Stomach pump? Appendix out?”

Chase raised an eyebrow slowly, not saying a word and choosing instead to dig into his food.

Even better.

A _puzzle_.

*

1986

“We’ve found the problem.”

Dr. Chase’s words are exhaled. Rob found that every time he had something serious to say, it came as a ‘whoosh’ of air, exhaled as though it were easier to get it out that way. He glanced up to look to his mother’s face for support and she clasped his hand, as though sensing his distress. There were only three of them in the room; father, mother, son. By all accounts, it should have been a happy family moment, but they were Chase’s, and when you were a Chase, there was no such thing.

“What is it, Rowan?” his mother demanded, her voice shaky and high-strung. “Honestly, just tell us! What’s wrong with Rob?”

“Rebecca, don’t push me,” Rowan snapped coldly.

His mother glared back and gave Rob’s hand a little squeeze. They both looked to his father. “He’s been playing outside again, Rebecca, hasn’t he?”

“Of _course_ he has, he’s a little boy!” his mother snapped, at her wit’s end from the sounds of it. “Did he catch something? When you went swimming?” She turned to Rob, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Oh, Robbie…”

“You scraped your arm, Robert, you didn’t tell me about it,” his father said warmly, or at least, in that fake attempt. He was a doctor trying to sound warm, but when he was his father, he came off sounding insincere, horribly so. Rob just leaned a little into his mother’s touch and glared up at his father. “Your arm became infected, which is what gave you the fever. But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because you have pneumonia. That means there’s water in your lungs and it’s making you very sick.”

“Don’t scare the child…”

“Rebecca, he is my patient and my son and I…”

“Your son! You could try acting like it for once!”

“This is not the time!”

“When is the time, Rowan? When he’s worse? When all he wants is for his father to ask about his day? Do you know how many times he…”

“Stop it!” Rob interrupted, eyes wide. He glanced between his parents, pulling away from his mother’s grasp. “Please, just stop!” He slid under the covers, closing his eyes tightly. “Fix me so I can go home, and please, just _stop_ ,” he begged, turning away from there, scratching lightly where the IV was attached. He closed his eyes a little tighter, willing the world to go away. And when he opened his eyes, his father had left the room. His mother gently stroked her hand up and down his back lightly, only the slightest proof of support from her.

*

2005

The fact that he came by at six in the _morning_ should win this bet for him, no matter what Wilson might argue. He was barely functioning, but he was there and he had an ugly shirt in hand, draped over his arm as Chase wandered about his closet, selecting ties. House supposed that this was partially his fault, seeing as, “You can still come to the office and help us diagnose,” was the reason Chase had to be up, about, and dressed.

And so, lo and behold, Chase needed help getting dressed.

“I can do this on my own,” he muttered, snatching the shirt and slamming the bathroom door behind him.

House rolled his eyes. “Someone’s snippy.”

“I don’t need…House, the point is that I…” There came a huff from behind the door and a moment later, the door was pulled open and Chase was half-in, half-out of his t-shirt and there was a whole mess going on there. “I broke my arm, I didn’t turn into an invalid.”

“But you need help dressing,” House supplied.

Chase’s glare was priceless, as though House had suggested something obscene. “Just my shirt.” He sighed and handed his button-down back to House, avoiding eye contact the whole time. House just smirked and took it in hand. “Please,” he added quietly, barely more than a mumble.

House gave an amused snort as he took the shirt and limped over, helping Chase out of his shirt. “Just like when you were a kid,” he promised and that was met with a half-mad smirk, as though House had just suggested they go shoot coke behind the bleachers. House shook his head as he pried the grey t-shirt off the arm with the cast carefully. “Maybe not,” he accepted, helping Chase into the shirt.

At least Chase was right-handed. That meant he’d be fine to bathe on his own because House just wasn’t prepared to go there. Dating Cameron had been one thing, but House just wasn’t prepared to bathe Chase. Duckling in a whole new light.

Minutes later, every button was buttoned, every sleeve was rolled up.

“I need coffee,” Chase mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his good hand.

House snorted. “You and me both, gimpy.”

“ _I’m_ the gimp?”

“We can share the title, but just for now.”

*

1986

“Discharge day,” a nurse told him perkily, wheeling him to the door. “If you’re good about where you play and take care of yourself, you won’t have to come back, Robbie!” She crouched down beside the wheelchair and untied the balloon they had given him. “The whole nursing staff loves you, kid,” she winked, smiling – a pretty smile – and handing him the balloon. “Don’t think that means you should come back. Stay healthy, got it?”

Rob nodded, taking the string in hand and glancing to the door where his mother was waiting.

“My father,” he glanced up to the nurse with the pretty smile and the red hair. “Is…is my Dad taking me home?” he asked quietly. His father had never dropped the cold façade of the doctor. Even though Rob had lain awake during the nights, praying that his father would come, his _father_ and not Dr. Chase, God never really answered his prayers. “I just want my Dad to…”

“Rob,” his mother gently interrupted, resting one hand softly on his hand. From her breath, she’d had a drink at some point. “Your father is working, you know that,” her words were gentle, were always gentle. “I’m taking you home for some bed rest and you’ll see your father when he gets home from work tonight.”

Rob took the news quietly, staring forward towards the exit. Balloon still in hand, he glanced at his fingers, knuckles gone white from clasping it so tightly and as he stared, he let the balloon go into the air, rising up to the ceiling – twelve feet above them – and Rob watched it go, watched the static pull the balloon closer.

“It was very nice,” he told the nurse politely. “But I’m too old for balloons.”

Too old for a father-figure too. Certainly too old for a father.

*

2005

“When I was eight,” Chase began one night when House is driving him home – because Robert Chase doesn’t take the bus home and since his apartment was on the way, House had offered, take _that_ , Jimmy, he’d so won the bet. “When I was eight, I had to be rushed to the ER one night because of my fever.”

Now it was making sense. Chase’s mystery hospital visit.

“Turned out I had an infection from a cut and I had pneumonia. Pretty standard fare,” he explained as House parked outside the apartment complex. He turned to study Chase, the moonlight falling through the locks of hair and onto his face as he stared down at his cast – now dappled with a variety of other signatures. “I wasn’t there for more than two weeks. Like I said, standard fare.”

“So why are your records so hard to get a hold of?”

Chase glanced over. “My doctor was Dr. Chase.”

“Your father,” House supplied.

Chase’s gaze went steely, something that rarely popped up, but the mere mention of Rowan Chase had the ability to freeze every look that came from Chase. “No,” he said firmly. “My father had nothing to do with it. I was treated by Doctor Rowan Chase. There was no fathering in the man who treated me.”

House narrowed his eyes and trailed Chase closely as they went upstairs. He’d stick around just for a little. He had work to do and Chase had his brooding to get to. In House’s pocket, the black felt marker grew heavy beneath his fingers. He’d been waiting to sign Chase’s cast, trying to think up the perfect witty comment to brand Chase with; the cast was going to come off in a matter of weeks, and House wanted the staff to get a good look.

The keys jangled in Chase’s hands as he unlocked the door. “Safe and sound,” he assured. “You can go.”

“Just pneumonia?”

Chase nodded. “Just pneumonia.” He cleared his throat, glancing around him nervously, like they were on a first date or something. “Look, I don’t see why…”

“Your father treated you,” House cut him off. “You’re a doctor, Chase, you know what happens. You have to turn off the emotions. How do you think you’d be if your father was checked into the hospital?” he asked bluntly, hard and swift, because it might become a reality one day soon and it was better to cushion Chase into it, even if he didn’t know the whole truth of it. “The man that treated you cared more about you than any doctor you’ve ever met.”

Chase stared tiredly back at him. “Cold, distant, uncaring. He fought with my mother and he didn’t come and check on me.”

“Because you spent every moment in the hospital awake, right?” House challenged. “You had to sleep sometime, Chase, you had to have moments where you didn’t realize he was looking out for you. If he was as distant as you think, he would have given your case to someone else.”

Chase didn’t say a word in reply. “I should get to sleep,” he said finally. He clearly wasn’t up for a challenge, but House had one more trick up his sleeve.

He took the marker out of his jacket and held it up. “Can I?” he asked, gesturing to Chase and his cast. Chase seemed to deliberate this, making a show of looking longingly towards his bedroom, but he stepped forward quickly enough, possibly a believer in the old adage that it was better to do it fast and get it over with. House would try that one-day with a band-aid – on Chase’s skin, of course, he liked rating yelps of pain on a one to wombat scale.

House uncapped the marker and took a shaky step forward, leaning down and writing atop all the others, shading it to make it bolder, to make it eye-catching. Thirty seconds later and he was done, easing away. Chase looked down at what House had written in larger, capital letters and then looked up at House, his eyes awash with a sea of emotions that would never get out, never be released. Every sea has its tumultuous days, and the blue of Chase’s eyes were going into tropical storm territory.

“Good night, House,” Chase murmured, his voice heavy.

House gave him a nod.

On Chase’s cast, in larger letters than all the rest, written over all the other messages, House had written two words:

 **HE CARES**

*

1986

The smash of glass woke him up one night when he was still recovering.

His mother was crying.

And there was a car pulling out of the driveway, his father leaving to go and be a doctor. It was just past midnight and he was leaving again for his work. Rob peered past the curtains and saw his father slow to a stop in the car, catching his gaze and waving to him. Rob waved back, uncomfortable, not sure what to do when a cold, uncaring doctor replaced your father who just wanted to make a clean cut and suture the wound.

*

2005

House took the cast off himself, slowly easing it away. It would go in the trash, all the supportive words, all the tangible signs of friendship, House’s little attempt at therapy would get chopped up and recycled to be used as a cardboard box somewhere. Chase wasn’t smiling so much, but he had a settled grin on his face and to be fair, he had waited two months for this and finally, he was free to be independent and on his own again.

House tossed the cast into the trash. “There,” he remarked with a satisfied nod. “Wouldn’t even know you’d been injured. Not a mark to be seen.”

Chase’s smile turned wry, dark. “All on the inside,” he assured.

House just nodded, understanding perfectly.

The deepest scars rarely surface. The worst wounds are never _seen_. They’re just there.

THE END


End file.
